


Getting Back in the Habit

by foodstuffs



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Belly Kink, Eating, Feeding, Feeding Kink, Feedism, Force-Feeding, Forcefeeding, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Stuffing, belly stuffing, feederism, stuffing kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-07-19 12:52:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7362217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foodstuffs/pseuds/foodstuffs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a long tour and a lot of writing, Patrick's been getting a little caught up in work. Not that he'd been meaning to ignore the outside world, but Pete knows how to bring him back down to earth, even if it's been a while since they last played this particular game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Getting Back in the Habit

**Author's Note:**

> Here's yet another shameless feederism fic for all of you out there who are as into this as I am, I hope it fills your stuffing needs and doesn't disappoint :)
> 
> Once again for @patrick-is-trohmosexual on tumblr, and all of the lovely followers on there who repeatedly like what I write, thank you

“Are you hungry?” Pete asked, making Patrick look up from his laptop, “I’m making dinner, if you are.”

Patrick shook his head, “Not really.” 

“Oh, have you eaten already? I didn’t hear you get up.” Pete commented.

“I had something earlier.” 

Pete watched him for a moment, re-arranging chord progressions on the screen and playing them back through his headphones. The volume couldn’t be too high, as he’d heard Pete’s initial question, but it was probably enough that without Pete’s input he would have forgotten entirely about the outside world. It was incredibly easy for Patrick to get lost in work, and it was also incredibly easy for Patrick to lie about whether or not he’d done anything other than work. Pete wasn’t sure if he’d meant to lie or if it was just a reflex at this point, but he understood that it was easier than admitted that he’d forgotten to eat all day. 

“You should probably still have dinner.” Pete pushed.

“Pete, I’ve already said no.” Patrick argued, “Please, leave it be. I want to get this done.”

“Alright,” Pete sighed, “If you say so.” 

\-----

“Patrick, can you come here and help me for a minute?” Pete called.

Patrick answers faintly, “I’ll be there in a second.” 

“Thank you.”

Patrick could just about hear Pete’s voice over the music in his headphone, a melody that he’d have stuck in his head for weeks, and he shrugged his shoulders as he begins to stand up. One of his legs is half-numb from the way he’s been curled up, but he made his way to the kitchen nonetheless. He wondered how long he’d been sitting, how long it took to create that weariness and achiness that signified hours spent lost in work. Pete would likely inform him, calculate the time in his head and use it to convince Patrick to eat, sleep, whatever. Patrick knew, of course, that it was healthier to listen to Pete’s advice. That didn’t make him any less stubborn.

Upon entering the kitchen, Patrick was faced with an unexpected sight. There was large serving-bowl of pasta on the dining table, in a creamy sauce. There were two placemats laid out on the vinyl tablecloth, a frighteningly cliche image of domesticity, and Pete was gesturing Patrick to his seat as he fetched a bowl of warmed garlic-bread from the top shelf of the oven. He placed it on the table before looking expectantly at Patrick. Patrick remained standing in the doorframe, too tired to work out the significance of the situation.

“Pete, what’s this?” He asked, a hand pressed to his temple.

Pete smiled sweetly, “I thought you might want to eat something anyway. I know how much you like pasta.”

Patrick huffed, “I told you that I wasn’t hungry.”

“You did, but I think you might have been lying. What have I told you about ignoring everything in favour of work? It’s not healthy.” Pete explained.

“I wouldn’t call this amount of pasta healthy.” Patrick argued.

Pete grinned, “I think you want it, though. Do you care about how healthy it is?”

Patrick protested, “Yes, I do.”

Pete continued in spite of his introduction, “Or do you care that it’s your favourite meal, loads of it, prepared especially for you?”

“Yes,” Patrick repeated, quieter, “I do.”

“You’re going to eat it then.” Pete told him, “Give me a colour.”

Patrick regarded the mountain of food in front of him, the demanding tone of Pete’s voice, the gnawing hunger that he hadn’t previously realised. He liked the direction this was heading in.

“Green.” 

Pete nodded, commanded, “Then sit down.” 

Patrick did as he was told, sliding into the seat opposite Pete, staring as Pete piled his plate high with the pasta and then poured a ladle of sauce over the top. There was a second, smaller plate for Patrick to take some garlic-bread, an offer which he gladly took up. Once Pete had finished serving him, he took a small portion for himself and let Patrick dig in, a glass of juice beside him already laid out. 

The pasta was nice, well-cooked, not hard but not too soft either. Patrick appreciated Pete’s cooking skills, as his pasta was rivalled only by that of Patrick’s mother. The recipe was her’s, in fact, though Pete had added his own twist over the years, it was all annotated on the photocopy of the recipe that Patrick’s mom kept pinned to her fridge. He liked Pete’s additions, a little spice and a thicker sauce, though he would never admit it to his mother. Every time Pete made it he’d mix it up a little and try something new, and there hadn’t been a bad dish yet.

Patrick gathered up a large forkful and ate it slowly, savouring the flavour and the creaminess of the texture. The garlic bread was equally delicious, with a crunchy crust and a fluffy inside, warm with melted butter. It wouldn’t take long to finish, that was sure, as Patrick scarfed down his serving in practically record time. He was starving, yes, but he wouldn’t let that discredit Pete’s cooking. Yes, he’d probably have eaten anything put in front of him at that moment, but he was glad that it happened to be Pete’s pasta.

“This is delicious, Pete.” Patrick commented.

“Thanks,” Pete grinned warmly, “Want some more bread?”

Patrick nodded, embarrassingly in the middle of chewing a mouthful of pasta. Pete gave him two more pieces of garlic bread before slowly finishing the rest of his own portion. Following the bread, airy and soft as it was, Patrick could feel how his buttoned shirt was tightening around his midsection. 

“Ugh,” Patrick grunted, “Okay Pete, I’m full.”

“But Patrick, you haven’t finished.” Pete whined.

There was a fairly significant portion left. Having had two rather large plates already, Patrick was not nearly as hungry as he was before he started. Pete had also consumed two plates, though they were both smaller than Patrick’s, and he was unlikely to eat any more. This left Patrick to handle the rest of the pasta alone, and while he liked the idea in concept he was unsure of the practicality. Not that he didn’t love the idea of stuffing himself full to bursting with his favourite pasta, of course.

Patrick sighed, “Talk me through it.”

“We ignore the standard rules of yes and no. The only words that mean anything to me in terms of how you’re feeling from now on are red, yellow and green.”

“Okay.” Patrick agreed, “Do I get to know the plan?”

“You’ll figure it out.” Pete told him, “Colour?” 

“Green.” Patrick stated, and then the game was officially on.

Pete, as Patrick had guessed, wasn’t going to indulge himself in any more of the pasta, instead heaping another portion onto Patrick’s place and giving him the last two pieces of garlic bread. Pete moved around the table to sit beside Patrick, close enough that he could watch as the buttons on Patrick’s shirt began to strain and the hem slowly rode up the curve of his belly. Patrick was still eating independently and confidently, piling each fork with as much as he possibly could before swallowing it down, chasing every other mouthful with a swig of juice. He moaned softly the closer he got to the bottom of the bowl, and Pete was tempted to reach out and squeeze affectionately at his love-handles. 

Once Patrick had reached the bottom of the bowl, he dropped his knife and fork so that he could clutch his belly in his hands, attempting to soothe the tightness beneath his skin. There was a smear of sauce at the corner of his mouth and Pete cleared it off with his finger, making Patrick suck it clean before he started serving up the last of the pasta from the serving bowl Patrick’s dish, making sure to scoop up all of the pasta from the edges until the bowl was almost pristine.

“Pete, I’m so full, please-” Patrick begged. 

Even his loosest pair of sweatpants, the only true outfit option for a day on the couch, were digging uncomfortably into his waist. He adjusted the waistband to try and alleviate the discomfort and unbuttoned his shirt, but the ache that had lodged itself firmly in the pit of his belly clearly wasn’t going to be that easily deterred. Pete pressed the tips of his fingers into the soft flesh of Patrick’s midsection, smirking at the give he felt there. Patrick wasn’t going to get off that easily, it seemed. 

“I don’t think you’re full yet. You know, in my professional opinion.” Pete judged.

Patrick protested, “I’m the one who gets stuffed, here. If it’s either of us, I should be the professional.”

Pete smiled as he poked at Patrick’s stomach again, drawing a loud gurgle from the churning mass below, telling Patrick, “I’m in control of your limit right now, though, and I say you still have room.”

Given that Patrick was still busy massaging his aching belly, Pete thought it was only fair that he help Patrick finish it off. Not by eating any himself, no, rather picking up Patrick’s fork and picking up a small pile of pasta and then pressing it inelegantly into Patrick’s open mouth. Patrick opened his eyes wide, surprised at the intrusion, then relaxed and started to chew and swallow it down. With Pete’s steady rhythm of feeding him and letting him break, it seemed like less of a chore. The closer to the bottom of the bowl Pete got, the more Patrick let himself fall deep into that trance.

“Let’s get you upstairs before I bring you dessert, yeah? You’ve been doing great so far.”

Patrick hiccoughed, nearly choked mid-swallow, “There’s more?”

Pete smiled, “Indeed there is. Can’t go without dessert, and your favourite.”

“Pete, I really don’t think I can eat that much.” “It hurts so much already.”

Pete hesitated, hearing a tone of genuine concern in Patrick’s voice that he didn’t want to write off without checking. Patrick hadn’t said anything, hadn’t spoken up about it like he sometimes would, but Pete needed to make sure. His concern for Patrick’s wellbeing would always be paramount to any inconvenience it may cause.

“Colour?” Pete questioned.

Patrick huffed, “Yellow. Don’t stop, though, I’ll let you know if you need to stop.”

“Is there anything that can make you more comfortable?”

Patrick shook his head, “Bedroom would be nice though. If I can move, that is.”

“When you’ve finished that bowl, the pasta’s finished. We can go up then.” Pete told him, smiling as Patrick shoved another forkful into his mouth. 

Patrick didn’t take long to finish, dropping the silverware on the table when he’d done. Pete clearly wasn’t in the mood for waiting, started to pull Patrick up from his seat and help him up the stairs. Not that it made each step any more comfortable, with Patrick’s belly sloshing loudly and uncomfortably with every stair. Pete liked the sound of it, liked Patrick’s grunts of discomfort every time it happened. It had been a while, what with touring and studio work, since they’d done this. It sounded like Patrick had gotten out of practice.

He leaned Patrick back on the bed, falling next to him and affectionately nuzzling his face into Patrick’s neck for a moment before picking himself up once again. Patrick turned his face into the fabric of the bed, tried to catch his breath. Pete was making his way towards the door, trying to tear his eyes away from Patrick.

“I’ll be back in just a second, just let me go and get the cake.”

It may not have taken long, but Patrick was getting slightly impatient by the time Pete returned, carefully balancing a cake-board in one hand and a large glass of water in the other. He nudged open the door and moved across the room to place the water on the bedside table, laying the cake-board on the bed next to Patrick before helping him sit up.

“That’s a lot,” Patrick murmured.

Pete stared at him, laid back and near-on helpless on the rumpled bedsheets, and asked “Do you think you can eat it yourself, or do you want me to feed it to you?”

Patrick hummed, “I’ll try and eat it myself.”

His voice sounded distant, and Pete knew that he’d fallen into that headspace where half his consciousness was miles away, the other half focused entirely on the physical. Still, he made the move to reach for the first slice of cake, picking up the fork that Pete had left alongside it. He took small, careful bites; the largest he could with such a small implement, before giving up on cutlery entirely. Once the first slice was out of the way, Patrick picked up the gooey chocolate cake in his hands so that he could eat it faster. Pete could feel beneath his hands how Patrick’s belly churned and protested to every new mouthful.

“That’s it, Pete, I can’t,” Patrick breathed, having only a couple of slices left, “I can’t eat any more.”

Pete smiled, “Let me.”

“No, Pete, I’m so full.” Patrick groaned in protest

Pete didn’t respond, only shoved another piece of the cake into Patrick’s mouth, watching raptly as it smeared around the corners of his mouth. Patrick’s protests were cut off by a burp and a moan, by Pete shifting around where he was straddling Patrick’s belly. Patrick’s eyes were screwed shut with the discomfort he was in, and Pete was determined to get his stomach to make as much noise as possible by kneading it with his hands and pressing it between his thighs. Patrick was hard-pressed not to plead for mercy. There was less than half of the cake left, and now he knew he could finish it, but every movement brought about a new gurgle and a new ache. Pete’s pace was merciless, but it would get the job done.

Pete paid no attention to whatever sounds of protest came from either Patrick’s mouth or his upset belly, instead focused on stuffing Patrick with as much cake as he could in any given mouthful. Patrick moaned around the food in his mouth, and Pete took that as encouragement as he pressed his hands a little deeper into the soft flesh of Patrick’s stomach, feeling the tightness beneath. It stopped being pleasant and polite some time around when Patrick gave up his fork in favour of eating the sticky cake from his hands, and Pete was happy to continue that trend. There wasn’t any delicacy or elegance about it, with both sets of messy hands and the dirty smirk on Pete’s face.

By the time Patrick had only one slice of cake left to consume, Pete was devoting more time to massaging his belly and kissing down Patrick’s sides. It was getting a little hard to breathe, though whether it was from the weight or Pete’s teasing, Patrick couldn’t be sure. He groaned as Pete finally lifted the last slice off of the the cake-board and onto the plate, it was so close to being over, and Pete’s slow teasing was starting to get a little more testing than he was happy with. 

He swallowed the cake with great effort, tipping his head back in a strange mix of pleasure and persistent discomfort, and all that really achieved was letting Pete have access to the sensitive spot on the side of his neck. Pete was just as riled up now as Patrick was, though a little more nimble, and determined to lavish his attentions on Patrick as much as he possibly could. This was not, all in all, a bad thing. Patrick was uncomfortable, yes, but the motions of Pete’s hands and Pete’s lips was slowly overcoming that.

“Pete,” Patrick sighed, not really knowing where he was going with that.

Pete smiled against his skin, “So good, Patrick, you did so good. Can I fuck you?”

“Which way?” Patrick asked, because when he was as stuffed as he was, that was a primary concern.

“If you kneel, hands and knees, can I fuck you like that?”

“Yeah.” Patrick nods, “Green.”

“I can’t wait to feel the weight of you in my hands, Patrick, you’re so stuffed.”

It was true, seeing Patrick laying back on the sheets and filled to his absolute limit, Pete was struggling to keep his hands off long enough to even have that discussion. He looked like the true image of debauchery, rougher around the edges and filthier than any Renaissance painting could ever show lust to be. With his shirt long-unbuttoned the flush that rose high on his cheeks, Pete would take a photograph would Patrick not kill him for doing so. He wondered if paintings representing gluttony would be more accurate, and had to stop himself before he considered pursuing a career in fine art. He could do justice to this sight, in words or in music or in image, only that Patrick would never let him. He supposed that meant that they’d just have to do it so often that he never forgot the feeling. 

Pete helped Patrick sit up, hearing him groan as his belly was jostled and Pete’s hands continued to soothe. Slowly, Patrick turned himself around so that he was on all fours, kneeling on the dark red sheets. Pete had taken a step back to undress himself and find the lube from the drawer, and Patrick was getting desperate in his absence. His belly hung low and heavy beneath him, so tight and so sensitive that even the tiniest movement sent a shiver down Patrick’s spine. Before he knew it, Pete’s arms were wrapping around his waist, pressing up against his stomach and purposefully jostling him. Patrick leaned forward enough to bury his face in the bed, stifling moans and belches as Pete continued to rub circles and spirals into his skin. 

“Please, Pete,” Patrick begged, his voice cracking as he spoke, “I need-”

Pete feigned innocence, “Need what?”  
“Need you to get on with it. Fuck me, Pete, please.” Patrick continued.

Pete laughed, “Yeah, alright, I’ll get started.”

“Come on.” Patrick whined.

“First, don’t hesitate to safeword out if it gets too uncomfortable, I’m happy to just jerk you off if you want. If you’ve got no complaints, I’m going to start now.” 

“Please.”

Pete flipped open the cap on the bottle of lube and squeezed some over his fingers, warming in his hands before pressing his first finger into Patrick, who moaned softly and pressed back against Pete’s hand. If Pete’d thought he’d been out-of-practice when it came to stuffing, clearly no skill was lost when it came to fucking. Patrick was still begging, quiet and mindless, as Pete drew his hand away and then returned with two fingers, still holding back so that he could tease Patrick longer.

It wasn’t long before Pete gave up on teasing, deciding instead to start with three fingers and curl them up against Patrick’s prostate, making him jump before he could prepare himself, wobbling his belly so that it churned and sloshed loud. If Patrick hadn’t been begging, he would probably would have left it that, bringing Patrick to the very edge with just his fingers and his tongue. Still, he kept Patrick there for a few moments until he’d settled again, gotten as comfortable as he was ever going to get with that much food inside him.

Pete reopened the lube once again and squeezed a little more into the palm of his hand, using it to jerk himself a couple of times before leaning forwards and lining up, pressing himself into Patrick as he moaned and shook beneath him. He had a rhythm, one that he knew Patrick liked, one that he subconsciously wrote into half of their songs nowadays. It was so familiar and reminiscent of previous occasions that Pete struggled to keep his hips from bucking forwards. He had to be gentle, no matter how much Patrick was begging for him to go harder, because things would be much more difficult if Patrick started feeling sick. Pete’s wandering hands probably weren’t helping in that respect, so he decided to keep them for jerking Patrick off in time to his own movements.

“Pete, Pete, come on,” Patrick grunted, “I know you’re close, just get yourself off and then you can repay me after.”

Pete doesn’t say that Patrick was the one asking to be fucked, he doesn’t want to deal with that level of bitchfest right now.

He didn’t answer, either, figuring that just getting on with it as Patrick had asked would be response enough. He was, as Patrick had accurately judged, very close already, and it only took a few more short thrusts before he was coming, hot and wet inside Patrick. There wasn’t much time for afterglow, though, as Pete pulled out carefully before laying Patrick on his back. This was all about Patrick, after all, and this would fuel Pete’s fantasies for the rest of eternity anyway. 

He decided to return to fingering Patrick, pressing kisses wherever he could reach, sucking bruises on every available patch of pale skin. Patrick’s breathing was short, rushed, and he was staring at Pete like he was worshipping him. Pete, of course, had far better accuracy with his fingers than he did with his dick, so he went straight back to curling them against Patrick’s prostate, uncurling them and curling them again until Patrick was coming untouched, leaving white streaks over his own stomach.

Pete treated once again, moving away from the bed to fetch a washcloth from the en-suite, running it under warm water so that he could clean Patrick up before letting himself relax into bed. Patrick, when he returned, was pliable and sleepy, allowing Pete to clean him without any complaint or comment. He still looked uncomfortable, one hand having drifted to rub at the taut curve of his belly, and Pete decided to take over so that Patrick could get to sleep.

“It hurts,” Patrick muttered, quiet as a breath.

“I know,” Pete comforted, drawing lines and circles softly over his belly, “You did so well, though, I wasn’t sure if you’d manage it all.”

“Nah, it was easy.” Patrick lied, a smile gracing his lips briefly before relaxing once again.

Pete laughed, “If that was easy, I guess I’ll have to step it up a notch.”

“I guess you will.” Patrick agreed. 

Pete knew he’d be irritable and achy in the morning, letting Pete know that they were never doing that ever again. Until he changed his mind, of course, and held Pete to that offer. It was inevitable, really. It was a comfortable cycle, at this point.

“‘Night,” Patrick whispered, his face tucked up against Pete’s collarbones, “Thank you for taking care of me.”

“My pleasure,” Pete answered, “‘Night.”


End file.
